


Refill

by yeaka



Series: Nevrast [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 10:56:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21073757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Tuor and Voronwë stop for coffee.





	Refill

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

They’re still two hours away from the small town with the hotel they’ve booked, but it’s also been three hours since they last stopped, and Tuor’s legs are starting to cramp up again. The sky’s already grown dark, and it’s cold both inside and outside the car. At the next pit stop, a place so small that it couldn’t even be called a proper village, Tuor keeps his eyes open for a coffee place. He could use an extra buzz. Voronwë’s dozing against the window, but he yawns and straightens up as Tuor slows down to in-town speeds. While Voronwë rubs his eyes and detangles the knot of hair he’d used as a pillow, Tuor scans the street signs. 

He finally finds a place that’s still open—a tiny coffee house with a hand-pained sandwich board outside and a picture of sliced pie scrawled on the murky windows. Tuor pulls up the curb and lets out a breath of relief when he can’t spot any meters.

Around another yawn, Voronwë asks, “Are we getting out?”

“Just for a minute. I need fresh air.”

Voronwë nods in understanding, though he hasn’t made a single complaint about the stale air inside the car or the rusty smell of the heater. They climb out their respected sides, grabbing the steel travel mugs always kept in the cup holders, and Tuor locks up behind them. 

Inside, the shop isn’t as empty as Tuor would’ve guessed. It’s incredibly small, sporting only five shabby tables with mismatched chairs. Three of them are already occupied. There’s a lone woman at the counter just standing there, and she smiles preemptively when Tuor and Voronwë approach her. The look seems directed at Tuor, which is the standard but still surprises him—he’s always thought elves far more beautiful than mortal men could ever be. The barista is clearly mortal, but if Tuor were in her shoes, he’d still go for Voronwë. Voronwë is _particularly_ beautiful, and he’s been nothing but the ideal guide on their long road-trip. He’s polite, calm, and clever. They’ve had a good deal of interesting conversations, lovely songs, and the occasional adventure at odd and unexpected stores. But Voronwë hangs back, as usual, and Tuor does the ordering.

One quick look at the menu behind the counter, and Tuor starts with, “Good evening,” then, “two dark chocolate mochas with soy, please.”

The barista smiles back and punches the order into the register, pausing once to check the measurements etched into their travel mugs. Then she tells them, “Coming right up, Mr....?”

“Tuor is fine.”

Her eyes gleam. “Tuor. And do you want any food, or...? I could make you something...”

“No, thank you. We’re just passing through.”

Her smile falters slightly, as though there was any chance he was some magical local she’d just never seen before. But she recovers quickly and tells him, “Alright. I’ll bring that out to you.”

He tells her, “Thank you.” And before he can fish any change out, Voronwë’s handing a bill over. The barista takes it, cashes it, and hands back a few coins that Voronwë hands to Tuor, who drops them in the tip jar. Her smile widens, and Tuor politely bows his head as he turns away. 

They choose one of the two available tables, both crammed into the corner. They both have to sit along the banquet seat because one of the other tables has stolen the remaining chairs, crowning six people around it that seem to be playing some kind of card game. The banquet’s more padded anyway. There, Tuor can stretch his legs out and finally suck in a breath of sweet-smelling air. There’s an array of picked-over pastries in a display case at the front, and that scent permeates the shop. It only takes a few minutes for the barista to bring out their drinks. 

Then they sit and sip quietly, just enjoying the break. The other tables chatter away, but not too raucously. Just when Tuor’s about to ask Voronwë about their destination, the bell above the door rings. A large mortal walks in and hobbles to the counter, gruffly ordering his drink.

Then he comes to the only seat left: the one right next to Tuor. The man sits down, crammed much too close for comfort, and Tuor nearly gags, because the man has the worst case of body odor that Tuor’s ever smelled in his entire life, and he’s used to hard labour and long trips. 

He can’t take it. He actually coughs. Even Voronwë looks distressed; his delicate features pinch, and he turns his face away. Someone at one of the other tables drags their chair farther back. 

Tuor does the only thing he can think of to save himself; he turns and buries his face in Voronwë’s thick curtain of dark hair. It’s safe to inhale there: Voronwë smells like open fields and lavender shampoo. Voronwë chuckles lightly, either over Tuor’s sheer ridiculousness or the tickle of his nose against Voronwë’s neck. But Voronwë doesn’t push him away. In fact, Voronwë wraps an arm loosely around him and sympathetically pats his back. 

In an attempt to distract himself, Tuor asks, “How much longer until we get there?”

“_There_?” Voronwë hums. “Hm... still another two days at least, I believe.”

Tuor groans. Voronwë rubs his shoulders and chuckles again. Tuor takes one last deep inhale to last him to the door. 

Then he holds his breath and stands up, shuffling out from around their table. Voronwë loyally follows; they take their coffee to go.


End file.
